Prompts
by ChubbyCubby23
Summary: A collection of stories inspired by various prompts, of which you can suggest for me to write. I'll take pretty much any idea, but try to not make it too outrageous or improper; I want other people to be able to read it without getting offended. Ratings will be different for individual stories, but it won't go above a Teen rating.
1. His Red Car

Alfred whistled happily as he exited his garage, a bucket full of soapy water swinging from one hand and a sponge clutched in the other. This was one of his favorite days of the week, it was second only to video game night and all-you-can-eat-buffet night. Today was car pampering day!

Yes sir, Alfred took his car's care very seriously. Liberty, as he so fondly called it, only deserved the best of the best in his eyes. Sure, he may not have a girlfriend on account of showering more love and attention on his vehicle than a living, breathing woman, but Alfred also knew that his beloved car wouldn't dump him because he wore Star Trek uniforms to work. (He didn't do it often, but when he did he got all _sorts_ of interesting feedback!)

Setting down the bucket of water, Alfred sauntered over to his front yard hose. Turning the water on to a lazy flow, he picked up the metal nozzle and started to spray down his car. Walking around the car so as to get every outside inch of it wet, he marveled silently at how the red paint gleamed brightly in the sun; amplified by the coating of water droplets on its surface.

Letting the hose drop to the ground, he took up the sponge and dropped it into the bucket. Squeezing excess water out of the soft sponge, he began to lather his car lovingly in the soapy concoction. He got into every little crevice, making sure to not leave anything unscrubbed. After rinsing the red vehicle off and drying it, he proclaimed loudly, "It's great to be American!"


	2. It Was a Dangerous Elixir

America grinned excitedly as he pulled Russia along, his European friend a lot less enthusiastic than him about this. "Aw, c'mon, it'll be so cool! Besides, it's not like we're bothering anybody. This place has been abandoned for years!" Alfred chattered, pushing open the rusted-over door to the run-down building they had come to see.

"That is not why I don't like this, Alfred...Germany is starting to cause some problems, and I do not enjoy being in his country at the moment," Ivan replied, pulling his gloved hand out of America's grip.

"So? It's not like he's started a war or anything. Come on, this is just a pleasure trip! Stop being such a stick in the mud!" Alfred whined, moving deeper into the rotting building. "I've heard that there are still bodies here that were used in some weird experiments...Isn't that awesome?"

Russia gave the blond a blank look. "That is morbid...," he stated blandly. As his eyes drifted about the semi-darkness of the room they were in, something caught his attention suddenly, and he turned to see what it was. He saw a brief flash of red from under a desk, which held broken beakers and other equipment on it, and knelt down to investigate the area. The Russian ran his hand across the dusty floor until it knocked into something, a light tinkling noise echoing in his ears at the contact.

America whirled around at the sound, his blue eyes going wide with sudden fear. "What was that!" he exclaimed, his voice coming out somewhat squeaky. His eyes darted around the room fervently, searching for the ghoul or specter that wasn't there.

"It was just me, Mr. Hero," Ivan sniggered, palming the vial that he had uncovered from under the desk.

"Not cool, man, _not_ cool!" Alfred muttered, crossing his arms petulantly.

Russia ignored the American's outrage as he brought the thin, glass container up to the light, examining its contents closer. "What do you think this is?" he murmured, watching in fascination as the red liquid caught the sunlight in its bloody depths; leaving no trace of it on the other side of the container, as a glass of water might do.

America walked over to his friend, curious as to what the other had found. "Is that...blood?" he inquired, squinting at the vial of liquid.

Russia made a distracted noise to acknowledge the North American country saying something, but he was so enthralled by the red liquid that he didn't actually hear what the blond said.

America, not liking the lack of attention from his friend, snapped his fingers in front of the Slavic country's face. "Hellooo?" Alfred huffed, trying to get Russia's attention back on him.

Russia's purple eyes blinked rapidly in surprise, and he took a step back to avoid America's fingers, giving the smaller country a withering look. "Don't do that, Alfred!" he growled, his eyes drifting back to the vial in his gloved hand. He took out the wooden cork that served as a stopper for the container and brought it up to his nose, inhaling the liquid's scent. "It doesn't smell like blood...It must be something else," Ivan said, inhaling the inviting scent deeply once again.

"Here, let me have a whiff," Alfred said in a curious tone, pulling Russia's arm down to his level. He sniffed at the container's mouth like a curious blood hound, but he recoiled once the scent reached his nose. "Ugh! That's awful! It smells like rotting flesh," he gagged, his nose scrunching up in disgust.

"What are you talking about? It smells like honey, and a field of wheat in the summer sun...," Ivan countered in a low voice, his eyes faraway.

"Dude, what're _you_ talking about? Tch, your sniffer's off, big guy," Alfred grumbled, eyeing the glass vial with suspicion.

"Hmm, what do you say to a bet, Alfred?" Ivan hummed, rolling the container between his thumb and forefinger.

"What kind of bet?" the blond asked, watching the larger country carefully. He had a bad feeling as to where the Russian was going with this.

"If I drink this without anything happening, you have to buy me a nice dinner; not some cheap fast food like last time," the beige haired man murmured; swirling the liquid around in its container, causing it to fizzle loudly.

"And if something _does_ happen?" Alfred asked, arching an eyebrow as he placed his hands on his hips much like England had done when America was younger and obviously up to something.

"You take me to the hospital, I pay the bills to get my stomach pumped, then I pay for whatever restaurant you want to go to, and get my stomach pumped again if you choose some sort of fast food," Ivan answered, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"So, kinda like the last bet, only it's with some weird substance that we have no idea what it is or what it could do. How come I'm always the one to bail you out of these stupid things, anyway?" Alfred asked, more to himself than Russia, rolling his sapphire blue eyes.

Russia maintained his grin, a challanging look in his amethyst eyes. He swivled his wrist, moving the glass vial teasingly in his hand from side to side. "Because, you have a hero complex, and you can't help yourself from doing so," he replied to America's retorical question.

America sighed, shaking his head. "And people say that I risk my well being unnecessarily...Fine, you're on," Alfred gave in, returning the other's sly grin.

Russia chuckled and raised the vial to his lips, knocking the red liquid back easily. Contrary to the cloying, honeyed scent he had smelled before, the liquid had a devastatingly bitter taste. Russia choked on the red liquid, his eyes going wide as he brought his hand up to scrabble at his throat; dropping the glass vial with a crash. The Russian went into a coughing fit, gasping for air.

"Shit, are you okay?" Alfred exclaimed, thumping the other on the back.

A shudder ran through Russia's large frame as his coughing abruptly subsided. He straightened up slowly from his hunched over position, with his hands braced against his knees, shifting away from America's touch.

"H-Hey...Russia, you alright?" Aflred asked tentatively, worry creasing his forehead.

Russia turned to face America, an odd expression on his face; almost like he was split between laughing and crying. A strange, almost dangerous, smile crept onto his face, and his eyes seemed to flash red. "Never better, comrade...But why did you call me Russia?"

America's lips parted slightly, his eyes showing his confusion and growing horror.

"My name is the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics..."

_**It was a dangerous elixir that they gambled with, and neither were the same afterwards; the effects of the mysterious red liquid that changed both countries remaining to this day...**_


	3. An Unfamiliar Road

This was all so...unfamiliar to him. It was painful, in its own right, but for the most part it was the _fear_ that came with not _knowing_, not _feeling_, that got to him the most. He had thought that being forced under Russia's thumb and seperated from Germany was as far down as he was going to sink, but he was _wrong_. As much as he loved his little brother, giving up his right to be a country was the absolute hardest thing he had ever done, and he would admit to regreting the decision to revoke his title.

Prussia - although, now he supposed he was just going to be known as _Gilbert_ - let out a depressed sigh as he waited for the meeting to finish up. He wasn't sure _why_ he continued to come to these things, he was no longer a valid or recognized nation. Maybe it was just to see his former friends - they never seemed to have any time for him anymore - or maybe to see if he could talk to that weird, almost see-through nation that he saw hanging around the meeting hall - perhaps the kid was just as lonely as him? - or maybe he did it so that he wouldn't just be sitting around at home, taking up space while Germany did much more _important_ things that didn't involve him.

Sure, his old friends and family still referred to him as Prussia - when they remembered he existed, that is - but he suspected it was only because they didn't know what else to classify him as. After all, while he wasn't a country anymore, he couldn't be considered human. What entity that has lived for hundreds of years could be considered human? Even some of his old enemies - such as Austria and Russia - still called him by his old title, but the name alone meant nothing. He couldn't make any decisions, that was all Germany's business now. He couldn't feel his people, though he knew they were still scattered around several other countries, blending into other cultures until he couldn't recognize them anymore. He couldn't even relate to the old pains of wars and bad economies, no matter how hard he sought the usually unwanted feelings.

During his entire time as a nation, never _once_ had he felt so empty and lost! Now, he was no longer the proud country of Prussia, nor was he even the pet country of the USSR known as either East Germany or German Democratic Republic - GDR for short. He was a visible phantom, living in this world without actually being a part of it. He was an immortal nothingness that didn't even deserve to move on from his personification's death into the golden halls of other fallen nations, to sit among the empires of old and long dead countries that history books cared little for; celebrating past deeds, conversing in a language that all living things could understand, and - most important of all, to him at least - just _remembering_. And while he could think back on things just as easily now, there was something missing from the whole experience, something that he could never get back.

To be honest with only himself and the ghosts that dwelled on the Earth alongside him, the future that lay before him now _frightened_ him. His life, from the moment that he signed that dissolution contract from the Allied Powers, was an unfamiliar road that he had never even peered down before. It was a paved road, the cement cracked and sticky, and it was far unlike the dirt roads he had become accustomed to in his younger days as the Teutonic Knights. He was stranded, wandering a path that was too confusing and modern for his old world mind. It had too many turns, too many dead-ends, and no maps with which to follow its winding pathways.

It was an unfamiliar road, but it was the only road that was available to him. Now coming to terms with the fact that he could not change back into what he had been, he decided that this was a good time to start over. Why should he fret about what was in the past? He was living in the present, and the future was layed out in a new challange for him. And if he was anything, damn it, he was _not_ afraid of a new challange; he was Gilbert Beilschmidt, and don't you or anybody else forget it! With this encouraging outlook in the forefront of his mind, he took off running down his new path; a wild grin on his face as he shed the chains of his former life, easily stepping into his second chance to _live_.


	4. What She Saw At Midnight

This is more of a preliminary look at a story that I'm still working on the skeleton of, so I would love to hear any criticism or other helpful thoughts on it. I know it isn't much of a look into the actual story, but it does show one of the major relationships that sets up the plot for most of the story.

* * *

Ya* sighed dejectedly, her usually graceful strides slowed by the heaviness in her breaking heart. _Should I have been so harsh with him? He didn't mean any harm by his actions, and he's so immature and childish that I should have expected him to do something silly like he did...But, the problem is, that he still __**laughed**__ at what happened!_ she thought testily to herself, her petal-like lips held in a thin pout.

As the dark haired Chinese woman came to the crosswalk, she barely even looked up to see if there were any cars coming; the distress in her heart laying siege to her normally bright and aware mind. Just as she was about to step out into the empty road, Ya heard someone call to her from behind.

"Ya! Wait, da*!" a familiar Russian voice called out; the sound of booted feet hitting the uneven cement sidewalk was accompanied by heavy pants for air.

_He never was a good runner_, Ya commented ruefully in her mind as she turned to face her childhood friend, her expression as blank as the porcelain dolls that her mother had sold to help keep their family housed and decently fed. Despite what she was feeling inside, she would try to uphold her pride. "What do you want, Ivan?" she inquired stonily; her voice seemed to hold a bite that was almost physical, if the way that Ivan flinched was anything to go by.

"Ya-Ya," Ivan began, using the old childhood nickname that had always brought a fond smile to the woman's lips in the past; it didn't appear to have any sway on her this time, though. "I'm sorry, da? I didn't mean for it to turn out the way it did...I just wanted to surprise you!"

"Oh, you surprised me, alright. So much, in fact, that I spilled my drink all over my _new_ dress, aru!" Ya snapped, gesturing to the large dark splotch on her vibrant red dress. _Which I wore because it's your favorite color..._

"You still look beautiful to me...," Ivan mumbled in a tone so soft that Ya couldn't even hear what he had said. "I-I'm sorry," he repeated, his purple eyes unable to meet honey brown ones as he started to fidget with the hem of his black and white shirt. "I thought you liked pandas..."

"Not when they sneak up behind me and shout something in my ear as loud as they can, aru!" Ya sniffed haughtily, her slender eyebrows angling down as she narrowed those wonderfully expressive eyes that the Russian loved so much.

_Ya couldn't help the delightedly warm smile that broke out onto her face as she waited in surpressed anticipation for her friend to show up. It had been a while since they had gotten together, since Ivan was still attending college, and Ya was anxious to see the Russian after almost a year of not seeing one another in person. She had gone out the day before and splurged on this gorgeous red dress that she had seen, excitedly planning on what to wear with it and how to do her hair for tonight: her birthday. A light blush pooled onto her pale cheeks as she fantasized about finally confessing her feelings to her childhood friend, her hand tightly clutching the glass she held. Normally, Ya didn't drink alcohol, but tonight was special._

_A wave of low chuckles, derisive sniggers, and outright laughter suddenly swelled in her ears as slow footsteps padded up behind the Asian woman. Ya was about to turn around to greet her friend - for it must have been Ivan, doing something silly behind her back - her brown eyes rolling in amusement as her smile widened, but a pair of large, fuzzy paws covered her eyes - and the rest of her face, what with how large they were - halting her from moving and blinding her by black faux fur. She yelped in surprise as she was pulled into a rough embrace, her back being pressed into a broad chest, a furry snout snuffling next to her cheek. Ya would have screamed, but she was gagged by a mouthful of fur from the paws covering her face. So, Ya squirmed around, trying to break free from whoever was holding her._

_She jolted in surprise when something was shouted rather unintelligibly into her ear, her shocked movement causing her to spill the fancy alcoholic beverage that she had been holding onto her lovely new dress. "Aiyah!" Ya gasped past the fur in her mouth, shuddering at the unpleasant feeling of liquid dripping down her legs and soaking into the fabric of her clothing and shoes._

_The plush paws were suddenly lifted from her face, clearing Ya's vision. She spun around angrily to confront whoever it was that had just __**humiliated**__ her, but froze when she was met with the laughing face of her friend; a giant panda head was resting on the seat next to him. For a moment, she had no words to express how __**hurt**__ she felt; but, as Ivan's laughter died down, Ya's anger bubbled up._

_"You are a childish fool, aru! Why did you do that?! I __**cannot**__ believe your absolute stupidity, Ivan Braginski! You have publicly humiliated me, and I-I...I was going to...," Ya trailed off, tears of many reasons spilling from her eyes._** I was going to say it tonight...I love you...**_"I __**hate**__ you, aru," she hissed out in her tempest of hurt and disappointment; not caring how juvenile it sounded, for that's how she felt in her temporary misery. "I don't even know why I expected anything from you. You need to grow up, Ivan..."_

_"Ya, wait! Let me explain!" Ivan called out as she stormed away from him and out of the establishment, desperately fumbling to get the panda paws off as he tried to catch up with the Chinese woman._

"A-And you...you _laughed_!" Ya choked out, her facade of indifference cracking. "H-How could you _do_ that?"

"I didn't know that I made you spill your drink...I couldn't see what had happened because of the bear head, but that's still no excuse for laughing...," Ivan replied regretfully, his accent becoming thicker as he got more and more upset with himself. He had _never _meant to make Ya cry; especially not on her birthday, and especially not on the birthday that he was going to confess his feelings to her! Ivan shoved his hand into his coat pocket, thick fingers curling around the small box there.

Two weeks prior to this night, he had gone to Ya's father and mother to ask for her hand; he knew that her family was one for ceremony and tradition, and he wanted to do this right. Instead, it seems, that he had failed in this as he had with everything else in his life. The one thing that he believed to have succeeded in, the one thing that he cherished above everything else in this world, was his relationship with Ya.

Ya's anger quickly burnt itself out as she finally took notice of how upset the Russian was, guilt at reacting as strongly as she did to this unfourtunate misunderstanding rushing forth. _I never could stay mad at him for very long..._, she thought with a soft sigh as she was reminded of the awkward, chubby little Russian boy that she had first become friends with.

All the other children were suspicious of the Russian boy when he and his family first moved into the neighborhood, and they would drive him away from whatever games they were playing or would tease and taunt him with cruel words. Ya had watched from a distance for several weeks as the younger boy would approach a group of kids, all sweet smiles and hopeful looks, only for him to be rejected and turned away to try again elsewhere. And try again he did, until he had exhausted the supply of children on the playground that were close to, or at his age. Ya, who was actually three years older than Ivan, had asked the boy if he wanted to play with her panda stuffed toys. Ivan shyly agreed, happy that he wasn't being rejected outright; he was still wary of Ya possibly playing a trick on him, though. After a while, the two warmed up to each other and became fast friends.

"Ya-Ya...," Ivan murmured in an unsure tone, his arm shaking as he started to bring out the small velvet box from his coat pocket. Even if Ya didn't say yes, even if she wanted nothing else to do with him, he wanted her to have the ring anyway. She could do whatever she liked with it, but he knew that it would only fester painfully if he were to keep it in his possession.

"Ivan, I'm not angry with you...I know you meant well, but you have to understand how this upset me, White Bear*...," Ya said in a soft voice, smiling a bit as she used the nickname that she had come up with so long ago. "I just...need to be by myself for a while, alright? We'll try another time, aru; maybe it will go better the second time, hm?" she suggested, offering her old friend, and secret crush, a warm smile.

Ivan choked on his resolve, quickly withdrawing his hand from his coat pocket; leaving the box to silently burn in its resting place. "Da...right. Next week, then? My treat, whatever you want," Ivan said, returning Ya's smile with one of his own.

"Yes, that sounds nice," Ya hummed, stepping out into the street as she waved goodbye.

Ivan waved back half-heartedly, his smile fading as the woman he loved turned her back to him. _Coward...Stupid, stupid, worthless coward..._, he berated himself, starting to head back the way he had come.

A flash of light reflecting off the windows of the buildings caught his attention, and he glanced over his shoulder to see what it was. Dread spilled down his spine to pool in his stomach as he saw a car barrel down the street erratically, heading right for Ya. For one split second he was frozen in shock, but in the next he had bolted out into the street. "Ya!"

Ya turned around in confusion at the frantic tone in Ivan's voice, her mouth opening in shock as she was suddenly blinded by the car's headlights. She felt strong arms wrap around her protectively before the screech of tires filled her ears and everything went black.

* * *

Honey brown eyes fluttered open in confusion, a delicate hand brushing dark hair out of the way. The woman - she couldn't remember her name - winced as she sat up, her whole body feeling sore. As she righted herself, something sparkled in the striking light that streamed from the headlights of an abandoned car just a little ways off. She reached out to pick up the sparkling thing, discovering that it was an intricate ring with Chinese characters for "undying love" and "loyalty" carved into its silvery surface. She rolled the ring in between her thumb and index finger, seeing that "Happy Birthday" was etched inside the curve of the ring. Her eyes were drawn away from the beautiful object when she heard a strangled gasp for air, her honey brown eyes widening as she became aware of the scene in front of her.

"Aiyah! What happened here, aru?!" she exclaimed, hurrying over to the young man as he struggled to bring air into his lungs. She grimaced at the amount of blood that lay splattered on the pavement, reaching her hand out to rest reassuringly on his shoulder. "Hold on, please. I'm sure help will be here soon...," she murmured in a low voice, looking around for anyone who could help.

The young man's deep purple eyes were glazed over with pain, but they widened in recognition as they saw the woman's face. He tried to speak, but all he was able to achieve was a gurgling wheeze. His hand twitched slightly, clumsily motioning to the body next to him, which the woman had failed to notice before.

She quickly checked for a pulse on the other person's wrist, but couldn't detect anything. "I...I'm sorry...," she trailed off, her eyes lingering on the red dress that the still figure on the ground was wearing. She couldn't help but feel that it was important in some way, but she just didn't know how. When she turned back to the young man, his eyes were closed and his chest no longer rose and fell with his labored breaths.

The silence of deep midnight was broken by the soft whispering sound of wings, white feathers falling like a dusting of snow around the crash scene. The woman would have found it all quite wonderous if she had been watching the winged being alight near the tragedy, but her honey brown eyes were drawn back to the silver ring in her left hand. She closed her eyes and closed her fingers into a fist around the ring, pressing her hand to her chest. She didn't know why the ring gave her this light, warm feeling in her heart - especially with the terrible death she had just witnessed - but she accepted the hopeful feelings as a good sign for the future.

* * *

Ya: Means "elegant" **in Chinese**. This is the name I chose for Fem!China.

Da: Yes **in Russian**

****White Bear was supposed to be in Chinese characters, but I guess they don't show up on FF.

白种的 **  
**


	5. The Accident Changed Everything

It was an accident, really, but its effects had a terrible consequence. Young Colonial America had only been trying to copy what he had seen his big brother doing the night before in the cellar. He had found all of the colorful runes and flashing lights intriguing, and only wanted to do the same thing.

_"America, what are you doing down here?"_

_"I'm casting a spell, just like you!"_

He had only been trying to change the color of his pet rabbit's fur into something more interesting, but something had gone wrong when he cast the spell...

_"America! Don't-"_

Instead of his rabbit turning red, white, and blue - like he wanted - a smokey cloud billowed up from the center of his poorly constructed pentagram, and quickly filled the room. Once the cloud dispersed and America could breathe without his eyes watering, he had found England laying unconscious at the bottom of the rickety cellar stairs. When the older nation finally awoke again, he seemed to not remember the magical mishap, and went about making their usual dinner.

When America took a large bite of his hot food, and nearly spit it back out, England asked, "What's wrong, America?"

The young boy had denied that it tasted horrible, and choked down the hot, bland mush. His accident with his brother's magic had indeed not changed his rabbit's fur color, but it _had_ changed England's cooking skills forever...


	6. While She Slept

While she slept, he would play soft melodies of serene calm on his beloved piano. The music would waft through the regal house in wisps that seemed only to be heard when one was not listening for it. His thin, manicured fingers would glide gently over the polished keys of ivory and ebony with the delicately light touches of a butterfly; never forcing the notes out harshly, as when he was upset or angered, but beckoning them sweetly to play.

These were the nights in which she slept completely at ease, never tossing or turning in some fevered nightmare - whether it be a waking horror or otherwise. She would lie down in her overly plush bed - on which he insisted she sleep in, despite her dislike of the too soft mattress - and close her forest green eyes to the sweet sound of an Austrian lullaby.

In the early morning, she would awaken to see him sleeping next to her at a comfortable distance, his back turned to her. And she would smile at this, knowing that he had shown his love for her in the best way he knew how to. So she would patiently wait for him to stir, softly singing a song of her love to him as he woke up.


	7. The Names I've Been Called

**Stupid. Fat. Psycho.**

These were labels I'd learned to respond to instead of my real name.

**Freak. Bastard. Retard.**

Though they were said by different people in different situations, their meaning is always the same.

**Porky. Dumbfuck. Commie.**

I've learned that the names should be welcomed, because at least it's some form of human contact.

**Bully. Friendless. Unwanted.**

The names I have been given by others is all I have to define myself. Introspection is something I never learned to do, so how can I say that the names are wrong?

**Weird. Idiot. Dangerous.**

I wish that someone would take the time to learn who _I_ am...instead of just listening to all of the whispers that make a first impression for me.

**Lonely. Depressed. Cursed.**

These are the names that no one even thinks to call me - if they even think it applies to a _monster_ like me at all - but they probably come closest to who I really am...

**Loved.**

That's the only name I dream about, but I didn't ever think I'd hear it applied to myself. That is, until the quiet boy from my math class sat down at my lonely, empty table at lunch...and he got to know Ivan. And Ivan got to know Matthew.


	8. An Unexpected Poem

France had always identified himself as the country of love. He spoke one of the romantic languages and never stopped talking about "a'mour". It didn't matter to him whether one was male or female, only that there was love in the relationship.

France thinks himself a hypocrite, for he has been in countless relationships that were devoid of love in every sense of the word. He has loved what people do, how they do it and when. He has loved how one person walks, talks, touches, or loves themselves, but he has never loved who they are.

France may be an expert in the ideologies of "love", but he has never considered himself to have ever been in love with another. Love, to him, is the rarest of rare things; a precious thing that is almost extinct in this world. Love is condensed into a few simple things, he believes, not the elaborate schemes that he sees being played out today by most people who do not know what love is.

Love, is in the way a mother cares for her children, never raising one higher than the others. Love, is in how a man or woman touches their partner in the softest of ways, never pushing or rushing them to do something they are not ready for. Love, is in the way an elderly man whispers to his wife about how beautiful she is, because true love is not affected by the ripples and crashing waves of time.

Love, to France, is an unexpected poem.


	9. Her Celebrity Came at a Cost

Everyone knew her, or at least, know of her. She was the popular girl, the star, the queen. If you weren't with her - though "with" is probably an incorrect description - you were nothing. Boys wanted her, girls wanted to be her. She had the looks, the smarts, the athletic skills, and the unrivaled ability to make even her worst enemy believe that they were best friends.

But he was the only one who could see what cost she payed to maintain her celebrity image. The way she starved herself and painted her face to look "beautiful". How she took a concoction of pills to stay up late to study or keep her going through a game of basketball, baseball, tennis, too many things. And the way she had learned to derive a sick sense of fulfillment at making another "friend" was probably the thing he felt was the worst of these modern age diseases.

And, as she slowly dug herself deeper and deeper into her own grave, he wept bitter tears in his own. Because, while he had been gifted with the ability to watch her, he could not help her as she traveled along this winding path. He had given up his most prized possession, his darling little girl, so long ago for something that quickly turned out to be false, and now, he couldn't even touch her.

He had left her, let her fall from his hands that so ached to hold her now, and you can't have what you've given up.

* * *

Oops, forgot to add this when I uploaded...The characters for this prompt were teen!fem!America and dead!father!England. But, since I don't name names in this one, the characters can be whoever you want to see them as.


	10. A Moment of Grace

The sea was calm, and the land was unsuspecting. Gulls cried out a warning that went unheeded, for it sounded like nothing more than their usual guttural utterances. Sails of rough, durable material ebbed and flowed in the wind like soft water against a sandy shore; pretending to be something they were not, if only to fool themselves. Gravel shores went on until they stubbornly gave way to moist earth and lush grass, the green of tree leaves dancing slowly on top of rocky cliffs.

All was quiet as carved ships settled onto the coastline like travel-weary monsters, their wings of sails furling onto their hollowed out backs to await the journey home. Oars, like so many wooden talons, were retracted as the men garbed in furs and metals prepared to leave the long vessels.

"Are you ready, m'lord?"

The man who was addressed, though young and not more than a boy to the unobservant eye, gave a curt nod, a gloved hand gripping the pommel of his favored sword.

The peaceful moment before the storm was ended, there was no more time for watching the grace of nature. Now was the time to embrace man's grace, the grace that came out only in the most natural ways that humanity can muster.

"Burn it all."

* * *

So, here's Sweden and his viking warriors invading some unfortunate seaside village. It's my belief that, in the older days, country personifications would have been treated like nobility, since they were always seen around the current leader, or sort of like demi Gods, since humans may not know what they represent, but they can tell that they are different in some way.


	11. Before She Entered the Church

Before she entered the church, Ukraine paused at the bent and broken doors that had once been so strong and proud. The polished wood was splintered in many places from being forced open, and smoldering burns scarred the once beautiful carvings from the destructive fire that had eaten through the building. Ukraine sighed sorrowfully, placing a hand on the battered door to carefully ease it open. She stepped through the threshold with the quiet grace of a deer, the heavy material of her skirt becoming a dusty blue at the hem from the ash that her feet kicked up. She went to dip her hand in the stoup* out of pure habit, but there was no holy water in it.

"Sister," the familiar, stoic voice of her younger sister, Belarus, echoed softly throughout the gutted husk of the church. Of the three siblings, Belarus was the one who could always keep her emotions in check, but even her voice held the sting of betrayal and sorrow in it.

"Natalia...," Katyusha replied, inclining her head slightly in acknowledgement. After a short span of silence, she asked, "How long has he been here?", her light blue eyes drifting to the hunched form that sat on the charred, ash-covered floor of the burnt out building.

"Since they ransacked the place and set it on fire," Natalia answered in a grim tone, nudging at a blackened book with the toe of her shoe, watching with an unreadable expression as it crumbled under the light touch. "He could feel it happening."

Ukraine closed her eyes, allowing a tear to slip down her pale cheek. _Why? Why must they do such things to a holy place? This was the only place where my dear brother could find some peace, the only place that he didn't feel judged. This was the only place where he could be free to cry out his pain and fear without looking over his shoulder, expecting accusations of weakness from those who beat him down when they __**should**__ be raising him up. It was the only place on Earth where he could feel close to something that was bigger than himself, where __**he**__ could ask for help on what to do next...instead of other people coming to him for answers that he did not have_, she thought, silently approaching her younger brother.

Russia was sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest, his chin resting on his kneecaps and his arms hugging his legs. It was a defensive posture that Ukraine hadn't seen him use since he was little, so she knew exactly what she was going to be dealing with.

"медвежонок*, what are you doing, sitting on the floor like that? You're going to get your good trousers all dirty," Katyusha chided in a light tone, settling herself down onto the floor next to her brother with a soft rustle of dense cloth skirts, ignoring her own statement. She shifted around until she was comfortable, her knees bent and legs out to her side; she smoothed out her skirt, her calloused hands catching slightly on the rough but durable material. Ukraine waited patiently for Russia to speak, knowing from many years of experience with her brother that one did not rush him on this things.

Russia never took his gaze off of the rubble that used to be the altar, speaking in a low tone, "They shot the priest...His ashes are somewhere in here, mixed in with the ones of the very house he tended."

Ukraine let out a breath from her nose, her gaze falling to the ashy floor. "Well...he must be happy, then," she hummed, running her fingers lovingly through the slight layer of gray ash.

That caused Russia to turn his attention to his older sister, his eyes bloodshot and face flushed from crying. "Why? Why would he be _happy_?" Ivan asked in a hoarse voice, sounding desperate for an answer - though Ukraine knew it was not to this specific question.

"While he may not be here on Earth to care for his flock, he will always be a part of this church. As you said, his ashes are mixed with those of the church, and what holy man would not wish to forever be with his church?" Katyusha explained in a soft voice. "He has already forgiven those who took his life, you should not dwell on it either, brother."

Russia sighed brokenly, shifting his tired gaze back to the debris of the building. "If I do not, who will? They are my people, yet they are so divided amongst themselves that I just don't know how to make all of them happy! I just want things to go back to how they were! I _hate_ the way I feel all of the time now, l-like I can't keep a single thought straight in my mind without _their voices_ whispering in my head," he muttered, his voice breaking slightly.

Ukraine immediately knew what Russia was describing: Revolution and government change. When a country's people became unhappy with the current government, it wasn't unusual for certain groups - or even all of them - to start rebelling and demanding a shift in power. This sort of national unrest could manifest itself in many different ways over the course of the revolution, though it's effects varied from personification to personification. Other factors were where specific riots were happening, their size and magnitude, as well as why the people were rioting. Headaches, stomachaches, fevers, insomnia, clouded thoughts, and hearing a multitude of different voices were all common symptoms that a country may experience during a revolution - some worsening as the discontent remains unresolved.

Ukraine brought her arms around Russia's broad shoulders, remembering a time when this was much easier to do, and pulled his upper body down to rest on her lap. It was a rather awkward position, since Russia was a good deal larger than the last time she had done this, but it was still a comforting position to be in. Ukraine didn't mind that one of her little brother's shoulders was digging into her side, and Russia didn't complain about the somewhat twisted position his back had been put into by his older sister.

Ukraine heard rather than saw Belarus walk up to them, a soft scuffling sound indicating that she had joined them on the floor, her eyes drifting shut as she felt Russia open his arms so that their younger sibling could embrace him and rest her head against his chest. The eldest of the three siblings couldn't count how many times they had huddled together like this as children, but not once had any of those times been as desperate an embrace as this - save for one that she refused to dredge the horrible memory of up at the moment, though, later, she would reflect on the similarities and weep.

_God...Help us..._

* * *

Stoup: A small vessel for holy water that is usually at the entrance of a church; smaller than a font.

медвежонок: "Bear cub" or "Teddy bear" in **Russian**


	12. Half-Awake, Half-Asleep

Sometimes, it felt like he was half-awake; not all there, one foot in the grave and one out. His mind would feel hazy, almost as if the very gas he used to exterminate those..._lesser beings_...was clouding his very mind with its fumes of poison death.

Other times, he felt half-asleep. One might question if there was a difference, and he would very bluntly tell you that there was. Being half-asleep, as opposed to being half-awake, was a much more pleasant sensation. It was like watching clouds float by on a blue skied, warm spring day; instead of watching the black night light up with artillery fire, as he was doing now.

Day and night, dark and light, death or life. It was a constant struggle between the two. For him to reach his ultimate, to prove to the world that _he was superior_, he needed to utilize death and sacrifice life.

And while the bombs rained down like so many flower petals thrown to the wind, while bullets stung like an enraged swarm of bees; the man who had told him what he could be in this world, and had inspired him to become what he now was, was cowering in a bunker and readying himself to die.

And Germany stood by as his leader took his own life with cowardice instead of dying with honor in battle alongside his faithful soldiers, and silently asked why he was cursed to remain half-awake and half-asleep.


	13. A List of Reasons Not To

Her mind was always whispering a list of reasons not to get involved with him. He was overbearing, always forcing himself into every aspect of her life, whether or not she wanted it. He was incredibly overprotective of her as well, saying that she was much too small to defend herself, even though she had knocked out that blockheaded American and sent that perverted Frenchman running with his tail in-between his legs all by herself.

And while her head insisted on one thing, her heart was telling her another. He was the sweetest person she had ever met in her life, always complimenting her on the things she was critical about with herself. Though he seemed to play along with others when they viewed him as less than intelligent, making slow and simplistic remarks that had people giggling behind their hands or treating him like a child, he showed his sharp intellect with her freely when they were alone; discussing philosophy, playing a game of chess, or reading from their respective favorites.

Although he was usually very gentlemanly to her, she had seen his bad side, too. He was an unpredictable drunk, and he drank a lot; he could go from an unprovoked rage to sobbing in a matter of gibbering minutes. He smoked like a chimney, and sweetened his tea to tooth-rotting, diabetes-inducing degrees. He was a bit too quick to utilize violence instead of communication when in an argument or feeling frustrated, though he said that she was the same way sometimes, and he tended to ignore other people's opinions when they clashed with his own.

But, he put up with her at her worst without saying a word in complaint. He would give her some space when she screamed at him to do so, and then come right back to her when she got over herself with loving acceptance, murmuring about how everyone needed an explosive release of frustration or anger now and then. He was happy alongside her during her ups, and coddled her like she usually wouldn't tolerate when experiencing a low. He was quick to forgiveness, but wasn't a pushover, and would speak his mind with her.

"So..," Ivan hummed over the phone, his deep baritone voice - which she had always liked, not too high and not too low - like velvet in her ear, "Do you want to go out tonight? I know a great club that has a _'Beatles' _cover band playing tonight. The drummer's a dead-ringer for Ringo."

In spite of whatever problems they may have with their relationship, or what other people might say or think...

"Sure. I can't think of a reason not to," Abigail* replied, a knowing smile on her face as she crumpled up the piece of paper she had been using to write her list of reasons for why or why not she should stay with him.

Her heart knew that the logical mind could comprehend everything but one: Love.

* * *

So, here's a little one-shot story with Fem!England (Abigail) and Russia.


	14. We Loved Hearing All Those Rumors

It was always fascinating to observe how others took our "Cold War", when we saw it, at most, to be little more than a trifling disagreement on political views. Everyone was taking sides and bad-mouthing their supposed opposition, all of them too wrapped up in their own self-preservation or trying to further themselves in the world to notice our amusement as they misunderstood our intentions.

Yes, I will admit, we would both get very..._heated _in our discussions between Capitalist democracy and Communist socialism, but that was nothing new to us in how we acted toward one another. We had always had a sort of rough, brotherly bond between us - which others have apparently interpreted as some form of hateful loathing. But, as my friend once said to me after a slight bit of physical and verbal rough-housing, bears like to say it with a slap - a phrase I found most amusing, and yet, oddly, quite befitting of our relationship.

And while the rest of the world worried and whispered amongst themselves about which one of us would push the button and finally turn this "cold" war into a "hot" one, the two of us listened to the rumors that flitted about from land to land and from sea to sea, and we finally decided to settle our differences on the matter.

It is always fascinating to observe how rumors and words can do such damage in so little a time...Best to speak slowly and with meaning; one never knows how their voiced thoughts can affect the rest of the world, no matter how trivial they may seem to the speaker or how powerful to the listener. Actions may speak louder than words, but words - or a lack there of - are what separates the beginning of war or the end of one.


	15. A Remembered Song

It was like something out of a dream; he knew he'd heard it somewhere before, it had been very important to him, but he couldn't quite remember it. It flowed to his ears like the soft waters of a babbling brook, quenching his mind of the drought that plagued him and putting him at ease.

It was like chattering birdsong and whispering wind all in one; yet solid and warm like wet, sun-battered soil beneath his feet. The sounds of the wild ran through it - wolf, coyote, mountain lion, eagle, bear, deer - but he didn't fear the animalistic voices chanting in his ears; rather, he basked in their natural tones and found individual beauty in all of them.

It smelled of fires and clean, fresh air - and he didn't even find it strange that a sound was invoking his sense of smell. Fragrant flowers and berries, the musk of animals, and the smell of meat sizzling over an open flame with the sweat of human and horse near by.

Birds could be heard in the sky, crows cawing loudly for his attention. Men and women with copper skin danced and chanted around an inferno, their bare feet pounding the dust as they let out primal cries to the moon and stars. They wore the hides of animals on their backs, and feathers made out of rainbows in their ebony hair; weapons of wood and bone in their hands as shadowy flames danced among them. The world was spinning, spinning too fast now; he couldn't keep his feet, as the animal-people continued to circle around the blaze until they merged with it, and he fell into utter blackness.

He woke with a start, crying out in a language he had almost forgotten in the modern age that he now occupied. His tanned skin was dewed with sweat, his chest heaving with panicked breaths. He fell back against his pillow, mouthing along to the song that still echoed in his head.

He remembered.

* * *

Here's modern day America being reminded of his past with his native peoples. I didn't have enough time to really research any songs or rituals down by native American people, so I apologize if this is incorrect in any way.


	16. Once She Opened the Door

Once she opened the door, there would be no turning back. The damage done could not be reversed, and nothing would ever be quite the same again. No matter that her heart ached like a piece of coal that had crumbled in on itself once the fire died away for what she was doing; she felt cold, dead, broken.

No, she must be strong through this; strong, like her dear brother used to be. He was the biggest, the strongest, the _best_ in the world; he stood tall and proud, until the members of his family - or what he had _viewed _as his family - tore out his heart bit by bit, leaving him alone in the frosty abyss that was his empty house.

She couldn't judge them, no matter how hard she tried. She was doing the exact same thing, she was leaving him as well. And while his heart was ripped out of his chest and torn to pieces by those he loved and trusted, she could only wish that her heart would go numb, for the pain that radiated from her chest and raged into her mind was maddening to endure.

But it would not last forever, she reasoned - almost prayed - and one day, they would all be together again; one big, happy family.

* * *

So, here's one with Belarus. I don't write her very often at all, and I just can't really connect too well with her character for some reason, so I don't know how well it turned out. I'm looking for opinions on this, so feel free to tell me what you thought of it!


	17. He Spoke a Language I Didn't Understand

When I met him, we could not understand one another. I was young, he was old. We both spoke different tongues, and we looked nothing alike. Yet we had been forced together under the iron hand of war and invasion, and that was something we both understood. I was dumped off into his arms like a disobedient puppy by our master, a wordless order to teach me how to act in this new world of foreign rulers and cruel restrictions being exchanged between the two. And while our prisons my have been different - he sat on a silk cushion and was preened like an exotic bird by our master, and I was led around by collar and chain like a young but extremely dangerous animal - we were both captives all the same.

At first, we would both forget that the other could not verbally understand what we wished to say, so we began speaking through physical means. Touches, gestures, and hand signs became our voices. Some were soft; like a brush of the arm to get me to turn in that direction, or when I would pat his knee to get him to kneel down to my level. Others were harsh; such as a smack to the back of my head and a curt, sweeping motion of his arm to tell me of something I had done wrong, or when I would bite his hand when I felt threatened or frightened, like a cornered animal that attacks anything that gets too close. It was always an annoyance to our master when I refused to learn _his_ language, yet I would learn to communicate so well with one of his subordinates.

Whenever he had free time, and I had finished the harsh labors I was set to do under our master's wooden yoke, he would read to me in his native language, his mysterious words accompanied by the familiar gestures of our unique communication so that I could understand. He would often come to me at night, asking what my lands were like and if I had any family back before the invasions. I would tell him of everything I could remember from my homeland, my brothers and sisters*, my mother and the man that had acted as a father to me*, the only ones of my family to survive the attacks on our country from the foreigners. He would bring a reed brush and coarse parchment with him on these nights, tickling my nose with the horse hair of the brush before dipping it in black ink, effortlessly guiding the brush in a smooth, flowing movement across the parchment to create strange symbols that he said was his language in written word. I didn't understand the concept of putting words on paper at the time, so I would watch him with great interest as he wrote, usually falling asleep because of the almost hypnotic movements of the brush on the parchment, then the inkwell, then back again.

Today, we still seem as different as ever. I am still young in comparison with him, and we still speak different languages most of the time. His hair is long and dark, while mine is short and light. I'm taller and thicker now, but he still appears just as small and delicate as he did back then. We no longer talk of our countries or families, there wasn't really a need to anymore. But while we can speak to one another in either my language or his with ease, we still prefer to use _our_ simple communication when we're completely alone.

* * *

Here's Little!Russia and China when they were under Mongol rule, plus a little look into the present near the end of it. I will admit to starting out liking the RoChu/ChuRo pairing, but I now see their relationship as more of an adopted parent/child thing, especially during this time frame. I still like the paring, but I also like putting out some cute, non-sexual relationship stuff with them.

There's some things in here that I wasn't too sure about, like the parchment or Russia not getting the concept of writing things down, but I just didn't feel like researching too deeply into those subjects at the time. If any of it is misrepresented, I'm really sorry 'bout that! Don't let my laziness ruin your reading!

Russia's mother: I like to imagine that Kievan Rus was a female country, and that she had children to represent her different principalities. So, instead of Ukraine, Russia, and Belarus representing Kievan Rus at first, they just personified three separate regions.

Russia's acting father: This is in reference to Sweden, as it was said that his people, known as "Rus" to the Slavs, were the ones to actually found Kievan Rus and rule it for quite some time. This is kinda debatable, since there aren't any clear records during that time. But, I kinda like the idea of Viking!Sweden coming along and helping Kievan Rus become a true country personification (y'know, after doing some raiding and pillaging around her territory), and acting as a stand-in father to her children.

Russia's brothers and sisters: Ukraine, Russia, and Belarus are the children of Kievan Rus and General Winter in my personal headcanon. But they had other brothers and sisters that represented the other principalities of Kievan Rus, though they were sired from humans, not other personified entities. As such, only Ukraine, Russia, and Belarus survived the Mongol invasion, which killed their mother and other siblings.


	18. It's In the Cards

It was all in the cards, everything and anything one could think of.

_"Will I win the lottery?"_

_"When will I die?"_

_"Who's my one and only love?"_

Yes, yes; I can answer all of that, all I have to do is consult the cards. The cards know all; past, present, future, afterlife, _everything_. They do not discriminate, they do not judge; they listen and answer, like the great oracles of Greek and Roman mythology.

They come to me from near and far, asking away.

_"Am I going to die alone?"_

_"Will my beauty last forever?"_

_"Is God really there?"_

I sit and smile, shuffling the cards that look worn beyond all belief. Pick three, I say, just take three. They fidget in their seat, sweating from nerves, and shakily pick out three from the tall deck. I flip the chosen cards over slowly; building tension and suspense, making them stew in anticipation.

I ask them to repeat their question to the cards, and they stammer it out once more.

What are you willing to give in return? The cards ask for fair payment, if you really wish to hear your answer...

_"Anything."_

Well then, we have a deal.

_"Wait...What's the payment?"_

...That wasn't your question...

Fine, you want to change your question...then you change the rules. The cards do not mind your procrastination, they will amuse you in this. To answer your question: Your payment...is what you truly hold closest to your heart, and you'll not notice what it is until it's gone from you.

They all leave me just as dissatisfied as when they first entered my dwelling, and I send them off with a wolfish grin on my round face.

They never understand what they give up for a future that is merely temporal. They figure out all too late that they've thoughtlessly handed over their most precious thing to someone who hoards people's tortured souls like a dragon its gold.

"Have a wonderful day! And may the Fates ever be at your side, comrade!" I call to their departing forms, my purple eyes dancing with dark fire as I bring the cards their reward.

* * *

Here's Gypsy!Russia, doing what he does best: Freaking the hell outta people. While I was writing this, I changed the characters up at the last minute; I was originally going with Voodoo-man!America, but then I decided to switch to Gypsy!Russia instead.

In case anyone was wondering, here are the characters that asked the questions:

_"Will I win the lottery?" _: Was America. I felt bad for stealing the spotlight from him, so he got to ask the first question. Alfred does win the lottery, but he then spends it all and gets into some serious debt. In return for temporary wealth, he gave up his stability in life.

_"When will I die?"_ : Was the Roman Empire. Nearing the end of his life, and being far past his prime days, he simply wants to know how much time left he actually has. In return for learning his time of death, he gave up his relationship with his two grandsons - Lovino and Feliciano - since he became so paranoid about death and dying that they couldn't stand being around him anymore.

_"Who's my one and only love?" _: Was Hungary. She's been having a serious relationship with both Roderich and Gilbert, both unaware that she was dating the both of them, and she wants to know who she should stay with. In return for finding out who her true love was, she lost the both of them when they discovered that she was dating them at the same time.

_"Am I going to die alone?" _: Was Canada. Being the cripplingly introverted person he is, Matthew just wanted to know if he was always going to be alone and forgotten, even on his deathbed. In return for learning if he would stay forever alone, Matthew gave up his entire life just to try and find the one person that was going to be there with him. After selling all of his belongings and traveling the world for this one person, Matthew dies in a plane crash, along with everyone else on the flight. In the end, he didn't die alone, but he never got to enjoy life with someone else.

_"Will my beauty last forever?" _: Was France. As an incredibly popular male model, Francis was desperate to know if his looks would stay with him throughout his life. In return for learning if his looks would remain with him for as long as he drew breath, Francis died young. Another model poisoned him, and he died looking just as beautiful as he was in life, yet he was unable to find the true beauty that is living out your days peacefully.

_"Is God really there?" _: Was Prussia. Having gone through life feeling like he wasn't worth anything to anybody, even to God, Gilbert acted out in anyway possible. After landing himself in prison multiple times, and then going through a rough break up with the only woman he ever really cared about, Gilbert turned to religion and the church. In return for learning if God really cared about him and was there, Gilbert became a priest, but was plagued with doubts all through his life.


End file.
